Storytime: "The Walk Home"

    *author's note* Most of the creative works you read here will be only partially edited or revised if touched up at all.  The point, the main thrust here, is to tell a story, raw and hardly touched straight from my strange brain.  This is not to take away from what you experience here, it is a matter of keeping my brain juices flowing and consistently weird.  I'm more adept at script writing than prose, so I do apologize for poor sentence structure and possible grammar mistakes.  With that said, I hope you are able to be immersed in what I write and enjoy it for what it is; raw storytelling.  Thank you!

 

    Timothy sniffled in the damp, dark, and windy autumn afternoon as he plodded on down the street on his way home from school.   The wet avenues were littered with dead leaves, most unmoving in the wind from the constant drizzle that fell from the angry skies.  The houses lining the street appeared lifeless, lightless, and utterly unwelcoming.  The wind, despite hurting his ears and stinging his cheeks, was nearly soundless and each time he sniffed his nose, he felt like someone was watching him, ready to chastise him for being so rude in public. 
     Luckily, no one showed up to scold the young boy.  Timothy was glad for such small relief.  Even so, the familiar neighborhood felt and looked dressed up in costume, a front for something else but whatever that was, Timothy had no clue or desire to find out.  He knew this was his neighborhood, he'd walked this path on these same sidewalk hundreds of times over the years to and from school. 
     The house of Mr. Rosenberg was clear and concise; painted a mauve color with mismatching light-stained wooden shutters on the windows.  The ugly house was in shadow today but there could be no mistaking the sore on the eyes that it was. 
     The Rober family had a Bavarian styled house that gave off a flavor of Europe and tranquility, usually.  As Timothy walked past it, the house and the pastoral green yard that was typically full of young children playing, (Mrs. Rober was a very productive woman, birthing eight children in as many years)was now barren and almost repelling.  To Timothy, being only ten years of age, he couldn't exactly place it but he felt hurried now, looking upon that empty yard.   Anxious to get home. 
     He was certainly curious about the neighborhood and all the strangeness it seems to radiate but his nerves started acting up and he decided to just keep his head down and stroll along until he was safe and sound at home, approximately four more blocks away.
     As his badly faded, hand-me-down sneakers got heavier from the lack of protection from the weather, Timothy slowed his pace as it was starting to tire him out.   He sniffled a few more times and finally reached an intersection.  The wind picked up suddenly, this time with more teeth and this time, it was definitely with a howl.  The drizzle was starting to turn to rain falling and it took only a matter of moments as Timothy crossed the street for his entire blue jacket to become completely drenched. 
      With another sniffle and a small jump over a puddle, Timothy noticed one of the houses actually had a light on inside.  It glowed in start contrast to the entire block of houses Timothy found himself near.  The people that lived in this house, he didn't now.  He thought someone new was living there now, though, but he wasn't one-hundred percent sure. 
      A moment later, he didn't care one wit as a figure moved and became a silhouette in front of that one and only light.  The figure, menace wafted from it and into Timothy's nerves directly, seemed to be looking directly at the young boy. 
     Heavy shoes be damned, Timothy began running.  His heart was beating rapidly, he could feel it under his now-drenched clothes as he continued to frantically run home. 
     Two blocks later, Timothy stopped to catch his breath and look back.  The rain was considerably colder on his skin than the drizzling had been and he began to shake from it, ever so slightly.  Down the street, he didn't really expect to see anything and at first, had to blink.
      Fear gripped him on every level.  A figure, silhouetted still, somehow, and somehow, seemingly blacker than shade, was walking towards him and briskly, too.  Timothy bolted home.

    Moments later and exceptionally out of breath, Timothy arrived at the house to which he called home.  It was a fairly large home, white siding with black shutters, and apparently a two-story house.  Timothy was feeling the start of relief as he trudged up the large wooden stairs to the front door and onto the large wooden porch that his dad had built them a few years back - but he stopped as he noticed no lights on inside.  Darkness permeated from every window as if the house no longer welcomed light, and diffused life itself.   The young boy slowly ascended the stairs and reached out to open the front door, a large and sturdy door that was probably from a by-gone era when things like front doors were made of sturdier materials than most things in the present day are. 
    Slowly, Timothy pulled on the door handle.  It wouldn't budge.  Was it locked? he asked himself.  Surely, his mom would be home by now.  Muscle memory guided him now as he pulled out his own house key and inserted the key into the old, sturdy lock.
    Like the heavy door, the key would not budge in the lock. 
    Panic was suddenly there, in his chest, in his lack of breathing.  He was terrified and feeling more alone than he had ever felt before in his short life.   For the very first time in his young life, Timothy felt the keen fear of confusion and being utterly by himself.
    His panic was fully induced when he noticed movement by the street; the silhouetted man had caught up to the terrified boy.  That alone would be frightening to Timothy but now, being this close to the figure that seemed to be casually walking on the sidewalk ever closer and closer to his house, he noticed it wasn't really a man after all.  There were no details visible, the whole form of this humanoid body was a blur of blackness, "black as pitch!", he recalled from one of the books he had had to read for school.  But it was accurate and possibly not human.  The figure kept stalking slowly as Timothy sprinted towards the backyard, looking up at the house windows hoping for any lights on or any evidence that his parents were home.  He just wanted to hug his parents so very badly in this moment.
    The wind began its own creepy symphony through the trees and between all the houses nearby but to Timothy, it was like a death knell, ringing out to predict his own death.  Suddenly, he was there at the back door and he frantically tried the doorknob to no avail.  It wouldn't move!  It was held fast similarly to the front door.  Timothy began crying and pounding on the door.
    "Please!  Mom!  Dad!  Let me in! I can't open th-" Timothy begged but stopped suddenly.  As if out of nowhere, the shadow man was standing directly behind him.   It had made no noise, made no indication of movement when Timothy stared wild eyed at it. 
     "Wha-what do you want?" he whispered, barely even audible.  His fear was complete.  He thinks he felt warmth down his leg but he was too afraid to even register it.
    The shadow man slowly reached what could only be described as a shadowy arm, nearly formless in its black and blurry swirling- like smoke- Timothy thought, as it reached out closer and closer.
    He was screaming.  Timothy, this terrified young boy of only ten years of age, was desperately screaming in the most primal fear the poor kid had ever known.  The shadow man's arm was nearly upon his shoulder, Timothy's heart felt to explode. 
    Screaming, terrified, and lonely Timothy suddenly knew peace.  A peace that he had never felt before, so serene, so full of tranquility. . .
    "What?", he was about to say but then the shadow man filled up with a sudden light and Timothy smiled.  The light from the figure shone brightly into Timothy's hazel eyes and they sparkled and shined like they never had.
    "I understand, now." Timothy said, his voice calm and collected.   He took the figures hand and they walked away, disappearing into a light that was not seen but always there. . .

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It was an unusually warm and sunny day for autumn.  Mr. Rosenberg, although grumpy by nature, decided this was one of the last chances he'll get to enjoy his morning paper outside on his porch.  He grabbed the paper that lay on the front porch, looked up at the blue skies, azure and free of any obstructing clouds, and breathed in deep. 
    "Ah, it's going to be a great day.  I can feel it!", he said to himself.  Smiling joyously, he sat on a wicker chair on his front porch and began to read the newspaper. 
    After perusing the usual parts he liked to read first, he noticed a small article entitled, "Local Boy Killed By Drunk Driver".  When he saw a picture of the boy, his smile faded. 
    "Oh, that poor family.  Poor kid, he was a good one.  Always smiling.", he said, talking again to himself out loud.  After a few moments of sullen silence, Mr. Rosenberg turned the page.
    "Where's the fucking sports page, goddamn it?", he grumbled, already moving on with his day.